The Rain a Deluge Showers
by UroBoros13
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to grow up. Sometimes it's even harder to let go. A story in which a simple drink has more meaning than just that.


The tea—doesn't really appear drinkable, to be perfectly honest. It's a little sludgy, and a deeper shade of brown than America's used to tea being. It actually looks more like a poorly brewed cup of coffee then tea.

"It's coffee, you dolt," England huffs, eyebrows twitching in irritation.

_Oh_, America thinks, and brings the cup up to his lips to take a swig. The grimace is automatic—England can ruin anything meant to be ingested—but the smile he gives is genuine. "Thanks, England!"

England only mutters something, cheeks a little red. It sounds a little like 'you complain about anything but coffee' but the details of what he says don't particularly matter.

America isn't really here for niceties or pleasantries.

Actually, he isn't really sure_ what_ he's here for. Not that England questioned it when he showed up at the door or when he sat down on the old thread-bare couch. Hell, America kicking his feet up on the coffee-table, shoes and all, had only gotten a raised eyebrow and a little glare. So maybe they're both in weird moods.

He hears the sound of a body settling into a chair, the creak of the wood giving under weight. Then, silence, save for the sound of a page ruffling, being turned.

This is familiar, he thinks.

America thinks of a house down a dirt road, and plain wood floors. He thinks of the soft hums of a man and the quiet _snicks_ of whittling knives against wood. Thinks of candles at night to stop the shadows from creeping in and the cross, plain and wooden, nailed on a wall in the bedroom. Remembers the quiet, all alone, and remembers the laughter and shouts when the other came back.

_Are you here to stay this time?_

And the familiar lie: _Of course, dear boy._

England's ceiling has water stains. Which shouldn't be surprising, considering how much it rains in London.

"The apartment's old, America," England says primly, eyes skirting over the top of his book to look at America.

America blinks once behind his glasses and grins, "I said that one out loud?"

England only responds with a little shake of his head, dismissive. America's done and said odder things, so he isn't shocked that England is able to dismiss him so quickly.

_What are you reading, England?_

_A book about fairies and kings and love. And about certain children who should be in bed and not up and about._

There's the sound of thunder outside, a distant rumbling in the background.

_It's leagues and leagues away, America. There is no reason to be frightened._

_But England—_

_No, America. You are not a child anymore. You cannot be scared of such things._

"I got over my fear of thunderstorms," America says suddenly. He drifts his eyes to the window, watches the dark clouds roll in over the sky.

England looks up, confused. "I would assume so. You are a man now, after all," he says dryly.

America sighs and lifts his glasses up to rub at his eyes. "You know why I got over it?"

"You grew up?"

America laughs a little. "Well yeah," he says, lightly. "But I had to. Rifle's louder than thunder. Closer too."

England freezes, and when he speaks, his tone is kept carefully calm. "Is there a reason for this, America?"

America smiles a little and tilts his head up. The water stains on the ceiling look a little like the rainclouds in the distance, huge and black and looming overhead.

"You made me coffee," America says.

_You used to love my tea._

_I'm growing up, England. I like coffee._

"Yes," he says faltering, unsure. "I did. As a gesture of kindness and one that you clearly do not apprecia—"

America grins. "England," he interrupts, stopping the other man's rant before it can start. "Shut up. It's a good thing."

He repeats himself, enunciates the words and emphasizes them. "You made me _coffee_," America says, like the word 'coffee' holds some special meaning. Like the word itself is something precious and vital for life. A treasure.

_We've never really discussed our past_, America thinks. He was England's one day and then he wasn't, and for a long time the bitterness haunted and dogged their steps. World War I brought them together but America preferred isolation and so they drifted apart once again. World War II was a bitter pill and the loss of an empire was a harsh loss.

And then it just became easier to not discuss, like the water stains on the ceiling. There and apparent, but not important. Because one grew used to water stains on the ceiling, in the same manner that one grew used to old pains and scars.

In a way, they were comforting. They marked occasions, places, events. _Here's where Spain nicked me with his axe, _and, _here's where Rome built his roads into me. Here is the scare from Cromwell and the scar from the plague. _

_Here's where you rendered my heart in two and left me alone in a field. But that one's invisible, you foolish child, just like my fairies. _

England has a lot of scars. America remembers tracing careful fingers over them as a child, each one huge and painful in his mind. Remembers the way the skin pinked and tightened, becoming almost shiny.

Remembered the careful looks England had given each and every one of them, rubbing over the older ones with a sigh.

_Do they hurt?_

_Sometimes. But only just. The pain fades._

America used to wonder at that. That the pain could fade but linger at the same time.

He understands now, with his own scars. The shiny pink burn from his capital, and the long thin line running across his torso. The burning trail of Sherman's march down one leg and Pearl Harbor on the other. There are more—hundred, thousands, more than he can count, one for every soldier from Kansas and Oklahoma and Texas, all invisible to the naked eye but ones he can feel every morning when he woke up and every evening as he lay down to sleep.

"God!" America shouts, and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. "We're so old," he says, but he laughs a little as he says it.

_There's no need for you to be so hasty to grow up, America. _

It is a _little_ funny, although England looks annoyed and frustrated. "America, are you going to explain yourself?"

"England, you made me _coffee_," America says, like it's the only explanation there is. It is.

_And I have increased a few taxes, of course, to fund the war you so recklessly encouraged with France. _

_That's not fair! You have no right to tax my people—_

_I have every right, boy. You best not forget who your mother country is._

"Yes! I made you coffee, America, I realize! But I see no reason why that holds any baring or why it would strike you to bring up your revolution!" England sounds a little hysterical. He's set aside his book, lain it face down on the nearby table.

He looks frustrated. He also looks annoyed and a little scared. But America feels exhilarated. He feels like he did when his people decided to fly, when they decided to step foot on the moon, when they looked around them and realized their _potential_ and their _capability_. When they looked at him, young and unsure, and said, _Land of the free._

_Home of the brave._

England stands, clearly upset. "If you are not going to explain yourself, then I suggest it is time to leave. I am afraid I feel rather ill."

"You're an awful liar," America says. He should know. He has Hollywood, glittering like a gem, in him.

England looks at him, long and hard, for a good while. Finally he replies, "And you, America, are an awful judge if you believe me to be lying."

When England opens the door, he opens it to a dark and stormy world. Somewhere, between America's coffee and exhilaration and contemplation, it had started to rain.

_It rains all the time, where I am from._

_In England?_

_Yes, dear child._

_Do you like it? _

_Sometimes._

…_.You should just stay here! It only rains sometimes an' then we could be together when it does!_

"It rained then, too."

"I know," is the mournful answer.

America sighs, scratches at his chin. The water stains on the ceiling offer no consolation, no words of wisdom.

"When I was a kid," he begins, but England's not paying attention. He's still standing in the doorway, with one hand slowly raising up and out, into the water coming down from the sky in sheets.

England looks at the water wonderingly, like he did when America was a child and he would see things only he could see, while America could only look on and _dream_.

"You asked me if I liked when it rained, when you were just a boy," England whispers. "And I answered that I did, sometimes. And then you asked me to stay with you."

England sighs, closes the door and turns to look at America. "You did that a lot. Asked me to stay. Always and always, forever and ever, you used to say. I dreaded-" and he sounds so _anguished_, "having to return, you realize? I worried for you. Anything could happen and I would be so far away and unable to protect you."

America feels guilty all of a sudden, a tight, sick feeling in his stomach. "England—"

He's silenced with a sharp look. "Nearly every day I was in the colonies, you would ask me to stay. Any opportunity you had to beg me, you would use. Every day, for years. I suppose I never expected that to change."

England pauses, pushes two fingers into his temples and rubs vigorously. "Christ," he mutters. "I do feel old. And now I have a headache."

It's the same old impasse, now. The one they've reached a thousand times, stuttered at, marveled at for its great width and length and how deep the chasm ran. The one they have stood on opposite ends at for years upon years and gazed at each other's backs from, always too afraid to look when they felt the gaze of the other on them.

England sighs, picks up his book and settles himself back into his chair.

He turns a page, and then another. Silence hangs throughout the apartment, thick and muddy. The tension is visible.

And then something snaps in America with a loud _thwack_. Something in his heart says _No, _and the pieces come tumbling into place.

"No," America says, and then clears his voice and tries again. "_No."_ It's more forceful this time.

England's gaze stays firmly on the pages in front of him. "No what, America?" He sounds too casual.

He sounds robotic and forced and _they cannot have this happen again_.

"We always do this, England. We dance in this same fucking circle with the same tune in the background and we never think of, _I don't know_, speeding up the tempo or hiring a different band. We just keep dancing. I think we do it because it's easier than anything else. But I'm _fucking sick of it."_

And he is. America is done with this, with ghosts and images of the past and _I love you, dear boy, never leave._

He wants closure. _Way to sound like a chick in a bad relationship,_ he thinks, but it's true.

So he repeats the catalyst for all of this. "You made me coffee." And then because the first few times obviously haven't brought about the great revelation as he thought and hoped they would, America adds, "You've never done that before."

It's 2010. America's been independent 234 years and never once had England made him coffee when he visited.

It had always been tea.

"Oh," England says, a quiet understanding overtaking him.

America smiles a little.

_And will you be mine forever, America?_

"Yeah," he says. The sound of rain chases the quiet away, nibbles at its heels and forces it to go faster. "I feel stupid now, for making a big deal out of it."

_Will you stay with me forever, England?_

_It's funny_, he thinks, looking at the water stain. _We've always wanted the same thing._ America thinks maybe people get caught up in their differences rather than their similarities, and cause themselves unnecessary pain. He thinks of battlefields and how similar they are to meadows.

How similar an end is to a beginning.

England clears his throat. "Coffee?" He asks.

America shakes his head. "Tea's cool," he says, and then grins.

England grins a little too.

_An' then when the rains gone, we can go play outside and the grass'll be green!_

…_That sounds lovely, dear boy. I dare say I will have to stay for that._


End file.
